


he'll never be you, and it's you i need here with me

by tryslora



Series: 1000 follower celebration [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College Student Stiles, Future Fic, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Jackson Comes Back, M/M, Minor Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about this guy in Stiles's freshman lit class that makes him unreasonably angry. Maybe it's because Blake reminds him of someone else. Someone else who was a douchebag fratbro. And someone who Stiles might actually kind of miss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he'll never be you, and it's you i need here with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is the sixth fill for my 1000 follower celebration prompts on tumblr (and I'm caught up to the correct day!). This is for distant-teenagers, who said "I would love to see a continuation of 'At Eleven, the World Begins at the Very End', but if you can't do that, how about a doppelgänger AU? Wherein Stiles runs into someone he thinks is Jackson and realizes just how angry/upset/longing he has become in his absence, and after an awkward, embarrassing blow up, he decides to get in contact with the real Jackson. I don't think I've read one like that. If neither prompt your inspiration, I completely understand. Have a good day!"
> 
> I'm really sorry I chose not to add to that series; in the interest of keeping the prompts quick, I wanted to delve into newer, short pieces. But I had a lot of fun with the idea of Jackson's evil twin, and I hope you enjoy how this came out.
> 
> NOTE: The homophobia refers to the OMC, who is kind of a homophobic jerk during two different conversations with Stiles.

“Why don’t you like Blake?” Malia bumps Stiles’s hip as they walk from Mission down to Parkinson. He’ll leave her soon at Jacoby for her art class, and he thinks that if he stays silent just about five more steps, she’ll… and then she bumps him again. “I asked a question, Stiles, and you reek of anxiety. Answer me.”

Because of course, Malia never backs down. “I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “I just… I get near him, and he makes me absolutely furious. There’s something about him, and it’s not like I’ve even seen more of him than the back of his head. But he opens his mouth to say something in class, and I can’t even think straight.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Malia deadpans, and Stiles has to take a moment to congratulate her on the sarcasm and humor. She’s come a long way after only two years, and Stiles is proud of her.

But he’s not in love with her anymore; he leaves that to Kira and no man in his right mind would get between the katana-wielding kistune and her coyote. However, Malia is still one of his best friends, and he’s glad they share one of their freshman classes.

She leans in, hugs him around the shoulders. “You should shower,” she tells him. “Even humans are going to smell how anxious you are.” She kisses him on the cheek and she heads into Jacoby. Stiles isn’t sure if _art_ and _werecoyote_ go together, but it seems to be working for Malia so far, and maybe she’s found her path in life.

Stiles still hasn’t found his, other than randomly being angry at life, and wandering around the local college taking various classes and trying to figure out what he’s doing. Unlike most of his friends who actually went away to school.

Maybe that’s the source of his anger. Maybe it’s because Scott’s in Massachusetts at Tufts, or because Lydia’s at MIT. Even the idea that Danny’s already a sophomore at CalTech makes something prick under his skin with irritation.

But nothing pisses him off as much as Blake Elmore sitting two rows in front of him in the required freshman lit class. _Nothing_.

#

“It’s obvious that the snake is poisonous—”

“Venomous,” Stiles says, not caring that he’s cut Blake off mid-sentence. “The snake is venomous. It could be poisonous as well, but the point isn’t that she’s going to eat it, but that she’s risking being bit. It’s an analogy for life—you have to take risks.”

Blake turns around, one arm over the back of his chair, and smirks. “She could eat the snake. Maybe she likes eating snakes.”

For just a moment, Stiles sees Jackson fucking Whittemore sitting there. Blake could be calling him _testicle two_ and it would be just perfect. And somehow the fact that Blake is talking about women makes Stiles think about _what if Jackson spoke that way about Lydia_ and he sees red. He’s on his feet, about to yell, when Malia speaks.

“I hope she remembers to chew,” she says idly. “Snakes can be tough. Have to bite hard, chew them right up. It’s probably very painful for the snake.”

Blake blanches and turns back around as the professor calls the class back to order with less flirting and more discussion.

“I don’t like him either,” Malia decides, her elbow pressed against Stiles’s where they both lean on the small desk between their chairs.

“Yeah.” Stiles is still reeling from just _how much_ Blake Elmore looks like Jackson, from the cut of the jaw to the color of his eyes. Blake doesn’t have freckles. And he seems like he’s even more of an asshole.

But it explains the unreasoning anger.

It explains a whole hell of a lot.

#

Once Stiles sees the resemblance, he can’t unsee it.

And he wants to confirm that it’s not just in his head, that Blake really looks like Jackson. Because now that it’s occurred to him, he keeps seeing Blake on campus and keeps thinking that it’s Jackson instead. His heart does a little skiphop when he rounds a corner and sees Blake there, until he realizes that it’s not Jackson. He finds himself looking for freckles across the back of Blake’s neck, except the freckles belong to Jackson.

He realizes that while he has no interest in seeing Blake at all, he actually wants to see that asshole, Jackson.

Fuck his life.

He positions his phone carefully during one Tuesday class, takes a surreptitious snap of Blake in profile, and texts it to Danny and Lydia. _Look like anyone we know_?

 _What_? Lydia texts back, while Danny just says, _Not really_.

It seems so obvious to Stiles, but maybe not when you can’t hear him, can’t see the douchebag behavior that is Jackson Whittemore all over. And it’s not like he can ask Malia or Kira either; they never met Jackson.

Maybe it really is just Stiles. Maybe it’s all in his mind.

#

It’s a late fall day, easing into the beginnings of winter’s chill, but still surprisingly warm for December. They’re coming up on finals, and Stiles is counting down the days until freshman lit is done. He’ll miss having class with Malia—they don’t have any together in the spring, although Malia is making noises about criminal psychology next fall, if she likes her spring intro class as much as Stiles has liked the one he’s taking this fall. But the end of this first semester means the end of Blake Elmore in his life. Stiles has stalked him just enough to know that Blake’s an econ major, and they shouldn’t have any more crossover after this one required freshman class.

Not that Blake can let it go easily.

Stiles spends class very specifically saying _nothing_. They have two more classes to go, and a review session, then it’s the final and that’s it. He can do this. No matter how much utter _bullshit_ Blake spouts—and God, the man is worse than Jackson ever was—he can stay silent. Malia’s hand on his arm helps anchor him, but Stiles is vibrating with the effort.

It can’t last.

It _doesn’t_ last.

Blake says something absolutely idiotic and disparaging, and Stiles is on his feet, shouting him down before he can think. Blake turns around, smirks at him and goads him, fucking _goads_ him, until Stiles is told to sit his ass down and be silent or else lose participation points.

Stiles has a fucking 95 in this class; he is _not_ going to drop below an A just because Blake Elmore is a douchebag of epic proportions. He sits when Malia drags him back into his seat, and he stays there, fuming, until class is over.

Blake corners them as soon as they leave the room, shoving Stiles back against the wall. “What was that, Stilinski?” Blake snarls. “What the fuck do you have against everything I say?”

“Everything you say is moronic,” Stiles points out. “A gnat would be a better judge of literature than you are.”

His head hits the wall when Blake slams him back, and it’s an effective deterrent to the unfortunate reaction he already had to the fight, but not soon enough. Nowhere near soon enough. Blake has him pressed into the wall when Blake’s gaze drops, and the smirk slowly grows. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You’ve got a hard-on for me, and you can’t handle it, can you.” It’s not a question, and it’s obvious that Blake doesn’t like the idea.

Stiles brings his hands up between Blake’s arms, swinging them out sharply and breaking his hold, shoving him back. “I do _not_ have a hard-on for you. You are too much of an asshole for me to even want to get near.”

“Your body says differently.”

“Fuck you.” Stiles swings at him, but he’s too slow, his fist slicing through air after Malia backhands Blake and sends him flying. She grabs onto Stiles’s hand and drags him away before Blake manages to get to his feet.

“I was handling it,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his hand along his jeans to wipe away the sweat.

“I know. I just wanted to help. It felt good to punch him, and besides he’s a homophobic misogynistic asshole. He deserves it,” Malia says. Stiles is pretty sure that Lydia would be proud of her; she’s learned all the most important vocabulary words very well.

The problem is, punching Blake doesn’t solve the root issue which is why Stiles reacts the way he does. All it does is remind him that appearances aside, Blake isn’t actually Jackson.

#

When Danny asks _why_ Stiles wants certain information, Stiles reroutes the conversation to a discussion of doppelgängers and evil twins, which is close enough to the truth that he manages to get away with it. Either that or he just bores Danny with his dorkiness until Danny drops the subject.

Either way, it means Stiles can sit down at his desk and type Jackson’s Skype contact into his computer. His finger hovers over the trackpad, not sure whether he should press to contact him or not. It’s three o’clock, which means it’s eleven where Jackson is. Jackson could be asleep. Or he might not answer an unknown number. Or he could just ignore Stiles altogether, because Stiles wouldn’t put it past him.

It’s not as if Jackson wants to hear from him, after all.

Ten minutes pass, and Stiles realizes that if he wants to do this, he should do it now, before his roommate comes back in a half hour and expects to power nap before dinner. His hand falls and he touches the button, watches it ring through.

The screen lights up and Stiles sees video of a room somewhere—it looks like a dorm room, with bunk beds on one side, and a chair pushed out from the desk with clothes slung over the back. He hears a mumbled, “What the hell?” and the blankets stir on the bottom bunk. A moment later Jackson comes into view, hair disheveled and t-shirt wrinkled. “The fuck are you doing here, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks into the camera. “You have my contact information?”

Jackson goes silent, rubs at his eyes and mutters something about needing sleep. By the time he drops his hand and blinks, he looks a little more awake, gaze narrowing. “Lydia and Danny made sure I have the contact information for everyone in your pack. Even the ones I don’t know,” he says slowly, and Stiles can almost hear him measuring every word. “Just in case someone tries to get in touch with me. What’s going on?”

“I just….” Now that Stiles has him, he doesn’t know what to do. He shrugs one shoulder, looks past Jackson into the room, measuring the sunlight that spills across the floor from an unseen window. “There’s this guy here who looks like you.” Although now that Stiles has Jackson right there, he can see all the differences. Blake’s face is rounder, his cheekbones less sharp. There are no freckles sprayed across Blake’s nose, and his skin is a shade darker. Blake’s eyes are a forest green, not the strange light green to blue of Jackson’s. And Blake’s mouth is harder. Crueler. “I guess he reminded me of you. And we got in a fight, and—”

“You fought with my doppelgänger, so you decided to call me,” Jackson says dryly. “Thanks. I appreciate the thought, but you realize that I’m not the one pulling your pigtails, Stiles. Getting mad at me doesn’t help. Go beat up the asshole of the hour and don’t take it out on me.”

“It’s not that.” Stiles licks his lips, tries to marshal his thoughts into something coherent. He pulls his chair over, sinks down into it and leans close to the camera. “It’s that he’s not you,” he finally says. “He reminded me of you, and he pissed me off at first because he was like you from high school, only worse. It was a gut instinct reaction to a rich entitled frat bro, but you were never as bad as he is.”

“Thanks.” Jackson lets the one word drawl, like he can see that it’s not really a compliment. “If we’re done here, do you think I can get back to my nap? I have to be somewhere in an hour, and I got shit for sleep last night.”

Stiles doesn’t really have anything to say, so he just makes a hand motion, loosely pointing at Jackson’s bed. “Sure. Yeah. Fine.” The screen goes dark, and as soon as Jackson’s gone, Stiles realizes that he should have left him a phone number. And actual phone number for texting. Just in case.

As if they have anything to text about.

He tries to ring Jackson again in Skype, but it doesn’t autoanswer, so he leaves a message with his number and an offer to text. He doesn’t really expect anything to come of it.

The first text comes back quickly: _Let me sleep before my exam review_.

Stiles stores the number, and he’s putting his phone back in his pocket when he realizes.

There was sun in the room.

Jackson can’t be in London; it’s after eleven o’clock at night there. At this time of year, it’s past dusk in most places in the US as well.

Jackson’s on the west coast somewhere.

#

Stiles takes a snapshot of the dining hall—a long shot that shows how every single freshman is bent head down over a book or several notebooks spread out. He sends it to Jackson, following it with the statement _one week until finals, we’re dying here_.

He gets back _last class on Friday, first final on Monday, not enough time for review_.

They trade texts back and forth, just idle chit chat about classes, exams, the 30 page paper Jackson’s finishing up for his art history class, and the reading and rereading Stiles is doing before his exam in lit. Stiles mentions working with Malia to study specifics before they have to write the essays on the exam, and ends up telling Jackson about her and sending a picture of himself, Malia, and Kira that he has from a few weeks before. Kira’s adorable, Malia’s hot, and Stiles has ice cream on his nose; it’s a pretty typical selfie.

There’s snark after that, and Stiles loses himself in the conversation. He has to remind himself not to ask where Jackson is, not to sound interested in the answer. If Jackson wants him to know, Jackson will say something. And Stiles can’t think why Jackson would want him to know.

They make it through several days of texting before Jackson says _last final tomorrow_ and Stiles wonders what happens next.

 _You going home_?

There’s a long pause, and it’s late it night so Stiles wonders if Jackson fell asleep mid-text or if he just doesn’t want to answer.

 _I’m staying with friends_.

It’s the last text Stiles gets that night, and the last text he gets until his first day of his own finals when a simple _good luck_ comes through.

Then there’s nothing, and Stiles tries to pretend he doesn’t miss it. He sends one text when he gets back to Beacon Hills with a picture of the high school (still standing and in remarkably good shape all things considered). He sends another on Christmas day when the pack is gathered (without Danny, Lydia, or Isaac) and captions it with the names that Jackson doesn’t know.

He stops texting after that except for one late night drunk text at just past one in the morning on the first of the year. He keeps pressing the lips emoji and ends with fireworks, and hits send before he thinks better of it.

Nothing comes back.

Whatever.

Stiles changes Jackson’s name in his phone to _Fuckson Shitmore_ and ignores the problem because of course that’ll make it go away.

#

Stiles moves back into his dorm room at the last second on Sunday night before spring classes begin. He unpacks by shoving all his clothes into drawers and waves off his roommate when he asks if Stiles wants to go out to the party at Kappa Sig. Stiles isn’t in the mood for any of this.

He gets bored after sitting around for an hour; without any work to distract him, the room is too lonely and dark. He finally decides to walk down the block to the coffee and dessert bookstore, pushing the door open on a small crowd of people all greeting each other after a winter break.

He catches sight of a familiar build and sharp cheekbones, and he grumbles inwardly. Blake Elmore. Of course.

Stiles thinks about leaving, but why should he? He wants coffee, he wants sugar, and he just wants to sit where there are people. Maybe if he texts them, Kira and Malia will come meet him. Maybe he’ll see someone else he knows. Why the hell should he leave just because Blake Elmore is here and reminds him of a certain Fuckson Shitmore?

In fact, why should he just let it lie?

Stiles grabs his plate of chocolate cake and his large caramel cream coffee and stalks over to a table near Blake. He sits down, back to back with the other freshman, and makes a grumbling noise.

He swears he hears someone say _don’t_ , but he doesn’t care. Right now, he really _really_ doesn’t care.

“We are _not_ going to do this again this semester,” Stiles grumbles. “If you’re an asshole, I’m going to be an asshole right back, Blake. You want a fight? I’ll give you a fucking fight.”

“I don’t want a fight.”

There’s something about the voice that doesn’t sound quite right, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s on a roll, ready to rant and waiting for a fight. “Maybe I do,” Stiles grumbles. “I tried not to engage all last semester. I tried to ignore you, and you were just this incredible _fuckhead_ , and I—”

“ _Stiles_.”

There’s something about the way his name is growled that makes Stiles turn around. He looks over his shoulder, body just starting to twist, when someone grabs his head, fingers across the nape of his neck. He tries to pull back, get his hands up between them, and then there’s a mouth over his, words being formed against his mouth— _I’m not Blake_ —and he just barely sees a flash of bright blue.

A _flash_.

Stiles blinks, forgetting to fight the kiss, forgetting to kiss back, not really parsing whatever is being said. “The fuck?” he says as soon as he has space to speak.

Jackson quirks an eyebrow at him. “Does that asshole really look that much like me?”

“You are _not_ forgiven for stopping talking to me.” Stiles jabs a finger into his chest. “And no, he does not, not in the details, but _yes_ , he does, from a distance, and what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Jackson stands up and grabs his chair, twisting it around to sit next to Stiles instead of behind him. “I’m having coffee because I heard this was a good spot on campus, and since I’m a transfer, it’s not like I know my way around,” he says patiently. “I didn’t actually expect to see you. I was going to text you in a day or two. After I’d settled in. It’s a big campus.”

It’s easier to look at him this way, to take stock of the freckles that are right there in front of Stiles’s eyes. He almost wants to reach out, but there’s a part of him that doesn’t trust whatever is going on. Because it could just be Jackson fucking with him. “Did you transfer here because of me?”

Jackson laughs. “No. I transferred here because my parents are back in Beacon Hills, and the university is willing to give me money to play lacrosse in the spring and run in the fall and winter. I spent a semester down at UCLA, and I hated it. LA is plastic, and the supernatural culture down there is ridiculous. They’re not fond of blue-eyed wolves. So I figured I’d come home.”

“I had nothing to do with it?” Stiles says suspiciously.

“You were… an added bonus,” Jackson says quietly. “I was looking forward to seeing you again, which makes me wonder what the fuck happened to my head since high school, but here we are.”

Stiles makes a noise, decides to ignore Jackson in favor of his chocolate cake and a long swallow of too hot coffee. He glances sideways, says, “Go get a fork,” and ignores Jackson, even when he sits back down and digs into the cake with his own fork.

They finish it in silence, and Stiles pulls out his phone and brings up his conversation with Jackson so he can send a new text.

 _Heard you might need a tour. We should meet at Decameron’s and I’ll show you the campus_.

He hears the distinctive ring and Jackson raises an eyebrow, digs his own phone out of his pocket and looks at it. Jackson glances over the top at Stiles. “Are we really going to do this?” he asks, then taps out something with his fingertips.

 _I think I can find the place. I’ll be there after I’m done meeting up with an old friend_.

Stiles hesitates, looking down at his screen. “Are we?” he asks. “Friends?”

Jackson shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Depends on what happens next. Might be friends.”

“Might be something else?”

Jackson grabs Stiles’s phone, rolls his eyes when he sees the screen. “Seriously?” He tosses it back to Stiles. “If that’s what you’re going to call me….”

“I’m still pissed off.”

“Maybe I can make it up to you.”

Stiles switches into his contact information, changes the name to _Jackoff Whittemore_ and saves it. “I’m up for seeing you try,” he says. He grabs the plate and his empty cup, pauses once he’s standing. “I’m up for a lot of things, potentially. Including more of that greeting you tried out.”

A slow smirk quirks the corner of Jackson’s mouth. “I’m up for that too. Possibly very up for that.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see how up I can be,” Stiles tells him, then walks away to put the dirty dishes in the proper bin. By the time he gets outside, Jackson is waiting for him, tugging on his hand and crowding him up against the wall next to the door.

Jackson tastes like chocolate and caramel, and his hands are warm on the small of Stiles’s back, where they’ve slipped under his shirts. This time Stiles remembers to kiss him back, cradling Jackson’s head and licking into his mouth, teasing him, nipping at his lip and groaning when Jackson returns the favor.

“Not a bad start,” Stiles says when they part. “And the good news is, we don’t have to finish any time soon.”

#

Stiles spots Blake on the first Thursday of the semester. Blake’s heading into Remington while Stiles is lingering on the steps, idly making out with Jackson just long enough to make him almost late for class. Blake does a double take, and Stiles lifts a lazy hand while Jackson raises one eyebrow and watches Blake pass by.

“He’s white as a sheet,” Jackson comments.

“Homophobic asshole,” Stiles replies, kissing the tip of Jackson’s nose. There are so many freckles, and he wants to map every damned one of them, although now might not be the right time. “But if it weren’t for him, I might not have gotten in touch with you. We might not be standing here right now. We should probably show him how grateful we are.”

Jackson smirks. “We can show him how happy we are. Public displays of affection at every opportunity.”

Stiles imagines how Blake might react, and while he loves the idea of giving him shit, he’d rather just keep Jackson for himself. “Nah. We don’t need to shove it in his face. I’m good with what we’ve got right now, right here.”

And he is. He’s strangely thankful to Blake for making him realize just how much he missed Jackson, and he’s thankful to the circumstances that brought Jackson home.

Most of all, he’s just thankful to have this, and he kisses Jackson again just to make sure he knows it too.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
